A/N: I want to thank the people who took the time to make reviews for my first story. It's much appreciated. Seriously, it makes my day! If any one reading this story has time to type a review, I would be forever grateful if you did type one. The more opinions, the better! Anyway, enjoy this chapter!
It took an hour to get to the Redding Municipal Airport. I was driving in the back of Lieutenant Gibson's police car, along with half the police force in the county. My luggage was packed in the trunk. My carry-on bag was in the seat next to me. It contained my laptop, my "Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Thief" book, my Nintendo DS Lite, and my iPod nano--all things I paid for with my own hard-earned money raking lawns and shoveling snow--along with miscellaneous things like Chap Stick and a sweat jacket.
I was particularly annoyed at the time with the whole police escort thing. It was bringing so much unwanted attention. I've had several people glance at me repeatedly, probably wondering if I was a criminal that would pull out a gun and shoot them. But at least we got their quickly by being able to pass through traffic with ease and ignoring stop lights and signs. As we passed some random middle-aged man driving a Toyota, I made my hand in a gun with all my fingers curled except my thumb and my index finger. I pretended to pull the "trigger" on him. His face was priceless. I knew it was a little immature, but I had to laugh at some people's over-reactions. I mean, I'm a completely normal looking fourteen year-old girl; Is that what a criminal looks like now? I must not have gotten the memo.
Gibson, along with three other officers, came in with me into the airport to make sure everything was organized, as well as escort me to my flight. They were trying to be less conspicuous, but people still stared. Security was ridiculous, even with Gibson—but heck, it's always ridiculous. I didn't take me any time at all to get through, but the cops with me did. Airport Security had to check their ID about eleven times, along with all their licenses to have guns and tazers; I'm not kidding. Their police badges were checked repeatedly too. Luckily, I got to my flight just in time; they were about to close the doors. I found that my seat was in First Class. I thought that was so nice of them, but I could never thank them for that until four years later.
Sitting in First Class made the flight great: the aisle seat next to me was empty and everything was quiet. The only people there were wealthy businessmen and women, and they generally just read TIME magazines and worked on their laptops.
I didn't want to work on my designs at that time: those were confidential. I just looked like a normal teenager listening to my iPod and playing games on my DS. I read my well-worn book, which I've read four times before, for a little while, and got some well-deserved sleep on a pillow and blanket the attendants had given me at the beginning of the flight.
It only took an hour or so to get to LAX. To my surprise, a couple people offered assistance getting my luggage off from the baggage claim when it was apparent I needed help. I took it gratefully. They wondered where my parents were. I lied, saying my parents were waiting outside. I felt guilty afterward, and thought about how much I wished it were true, and imagined that both of my parents were waiting for me outside the doors of the impressive airport.
Instead, by a yellow taxi, there was a guy holding a sign that said "Carolyn Howard". The taxi driver was about thirty years old and looked pretty average, not someone you notice when passing them. I walked up to him and introduced to him that I was Carolyn Howard. It was obvious by his face that I was not who he was expecting. I couldn't blame him; most people don't ever expect to be driving a fourteen year old without adult supervision on any given day. He put my luggage in the trunk, except for my carry-on, and opened the back seat door for me. I smiled at him, hoping he would relax a little; he seemed so tense. I said thank you for being a gentleman. He seemed to lighten up at that. He smiled sincerely, nodded, and closed the door behind me.
"Do you already know where to go?" I asked him when he was in the driver's seat.
"It's Tony Stark's residence, correct?" he checked.
"Yes." I said with a smile and short nod.
He just nodded and started driving out of the airport.
"Is this your first time in the Los Angeles area?" he inquired when we were nearly to Malibu.
"Yeah," I answered. "I used to live up by Redding up north. I have never left that area except on a trip to Detroit."
There was a short pause as if he was thinking of what to say. "May I ask why you are going to Tony Stark's residence?" he asked while looking at me through the rearview mirror.
"He's my uncle." I said simply.
I could tell just by in the rearview mirror that he was very surprised. He didn't say anything for a half an hour until we were going down a street lined with palm trees.
"Welcome to Malibu." he stated with a smile.
The buildings we passed were of the most beautifully sculpted architecture that I had ever laid eyes on. It looked almost like Los Angeles, but it seemed somewhat cleaner.
I'm going to be living here for four years! I thought. If am able to leave the house, I could be in the gorgeous weather and actually get a decent tan.
Compared to all these people walking in tank tops, shorts and sandals, I looked like a ghost. They, on the other hand, looked like they were dipped in cooking oil to get a golden, crisp tan.
Then I saw it: the house that I'd be living in until I turned eighteen. It was perched on a low rocky mountain top, overlooking the ocean. In other words, a house with a view!
But what I was truly amazed about was the building itself: It was so modern looking... and curvy... and huge! Even now, I can barely describe it. It's too complicated for words.
We climbed the low hill into a tunnel leading up to the house. We went in it, driving smoothly as it curved gently upward. After a little while, I finally saw an opening into a large, garage-like room. Except it was more than just a garage.
It was like the Batcave. It was a tall room that got lower the farther you moved in. There were about eight computers monitors on a wrap-around table with a comfortable-looking chair in the middle of it. In the back of the room, there were tables stacked with machinery where it was to the point of overflowing. In a corner, there was an enormous HDTV with a leather couch and coffee table in front of it. There was a bunch of other electronics lying around, but I was really looking at was the five exotic cars parked in front of the entrance.
Oh. My. Goodness. Each one was worth over five hundred thousand dollars! There was a Saleen S7, an Audi R8, a classic Shelby Cobra, probably sixties, and a Tesla roadster that wasn't even being sold yet. There was one more: it was a beautifully painted Ford Roadster from the thirties, and behind the engine was the American playboy himself: Tony Stark.
He barely looked up when the taxi pulled in. It was like he wasn't even interested to see what trespassed in his house. I got out of the car with my bag and slammed the door to try to make him look up and…nothing.
The taxi driver got out of the taxi and asked permission to take out my bags. I took a minute to answer because I was still staring at the top of Tony Stark's neatly groomed head. Is he ignoring me, or is he just distracted? Does he even know I'm here? I thought while I gave the driver permission to take my bags out of the trunk. He took them out, said a farewell and drove his taxi out the garage/workshop/Batcave. I waved goodbye to the driver and turned toward my uncle. He still didn't look up.
I didn't want to stand here all day until he noticed me, so I took a breath and walked slowly toward him, rolling my luggage along with me. I crossed this black grid on the floor and circled the table of computers until I was on the other side of the engine from him, looking at the top of his head.
I only stood there for what seemed like hours. I didn't know what to say. "Hi" sounded lame at the time. I don't know if it was the fact that he was a long lost relative I never meet, the smartest and wealthiest man to live so far, or both, but something about him intimidated me so it left me thinking anything I say was going to sound stupid. I didn't know anything about this guy. I didn't know how he looked (because I've never seen a picture of him despite his wealth and popularity), how he talked, how I was supposed to live with this guy if he's not going to say anything to me...; I didn't have a clue.
I was racking my brain furiously when sounds actually came out of his mouth. Without looking up from his work, he inquired in an uninterested tone, "Who are you and what are you doing in my house?"
It was funny how he said "house" like it wasn't perched on a low mountain. He said it like he lived on one of those cookie-cutter streets where all the houses look the same.
"I'm your niece." I said carefully.
He never stopped working but I could tell he was thinking. "Why did she send you here?" he asked in the same tone before.
I'm guessing "she" would be my mom, so I replied, "She wants me to stay here until I turned eighteen. That's what it said in her will."
He got the hint at "will", and he stopped tinkering with his engine. He practically froze for a minute, and I could almost see the gears in his head spinning rapidly.
I almost jumped when he got up. I fell back a step, finally seeing his face. He was really handsome, like Robert Downey Jr.-handsome. He had dark brown hair like my mom and a beard that I have never seen before on any other person.
He walked past me to a futuristic looking console on the desk and tapped it. "Miss Potts come down here quickly." he said to it.
"Why? What's wrong?" a woman's voice answered through it.
"We have company." He responded.
He stood there waiting with his back to me. I hate it when people ignore me and talk about me when I'm standing right there, and that's exactly what he was doing. This guy was not making a good first impression. Heck, he wasn't even trying.
Then I saw someone walking down the open stairs that were behind glass walls, which I hadn't noticed before. The woman was wearing a no-nonsense business jacket and a pencil skirt along with heels. She was carrying a clipboard, and at that moment I guessed that she was an assistant--specifically, Tony's assistant. Her red hair was tied back in a neat ponytail and she had a nice posture. She was very pretty, but sophisticated and intelligent-looking--not like the type of girls I heard Tony usually hung out with.
She typed a code on a keypad that appeared on the glass wall and walked through a transparent door that opened with a beep. She gave a brief glance at me before stopping a few feet from Tony and said in a polite fashion, "Yes, Mr. Stark?"
"Give the girl standing right behind me the guest room," he replied.
Okay, I thought outrageously, first you ignore me, now you won't even bother to learn my name?! I clenched my jaw. Ugh! This guy is infuriating! He doesn't even care about me or the fact that my mother is dead! I tried so hard not to cry; I cry whenever I'm mad or sad or just upset. Right at that moment, I felt all of those feelings.
Miss Potts gave Tony a slightly confused look. He muttered something like, "I'll tell you later."
His assistant looked at me, smiled and said, "Come with me. I'll show you around. You can leave your bags here. I'll get them after you're in your room."
I put my luggage by one of the tables full of electronics so it would be out of the way. I only took my carry-on bag with me and followed Miss Potts to the stairs. The glass door closed behind me, and as I was walking up the stairs I looked back at Tony Stark. He was already back to work on his engine. He never looked at me once.
I sighed. These years are going to be long, I thought. I can feel it.